


Some of Our Own Skin

by sexyvanillatiger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Porn, Divorce, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3271931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexyvanillatiger/pseuds/sexyvanillatiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Stiles try to figure out how to be divorced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some of Our Own Skin

"Stiles, where is my toothbrush?"

"I threw it out."

Peter closes his eyes and leans his weight forward against the bathroom counter. Stiles appears at the doorway, resting against it, eyes cold and as closed off as they are open. Peter tries not to look into them.

"Why?"

Stiles pushes off of the frame. "Figured you were already keeping another one at Chris' place." He walks off and Peter leans ever further forward, resting his head in his hands. In some deep recess, some part of him that wants to make it work, he thinks that he could just stay here; he could weather it. No. The bridge has been burned. He tries to pick his own toiletries apart from Stiles', whatever remains.

"Where is my ring," he asks a little while later, when he's almost completely packed. Chris is set to be here in a couple hours, as soon as he gets off work, to help Peter move out. Stiles had been opposed, but mostly just because he feels that Chris has invaded his home enough as it is.

Stiles just looks up at Peter, and then away quickly. "I don't know."

"You didn't touch it?"

Stiles laughs, not as much a laugh as it is forced, and says, "Not since you stopped wearing it."

"Stiles…"

"Don't."

Peter presses his lips together tightly, stops rooting around in the drawers of his bedside table and sits down on the bed. Stiles looks like he wishes he didn't. As though he thinks the sheets could still have the capacity for cleanliness if he just washes them enough. Even though Peter never brought Chris here, he always brought pieces of him. The dust of his skin. Short hairs clinging to his shirts. His touches and kisses and patience, the things that Stiles can't bring into this bed. Things that may as well be poison. Peter hasn't been home enough in the past few months to even know if Stiles still sleeps here.

"We're going to have to talk eventually."

Stiles leans back against the dresser, crosses his arms and shrugs. "Why?"

"I don't want to lose you in my life."

" _Lose me_? Peter, you _pushed me out_."

"That's not what this is."

"Isn't it?"

Peter takes a deep breath and knows that his temper will not rise. Not now. He laces his fingers together, touching the spot where his ring used to sit. He lets out air to cool himself. "It's too small of a town to not even _try_ to be friends," he says. Stiles never cared much what others thought, but Peter wants people to think that Stiles is more mature than he is. That he can get hurt and move on. Peter doesn't want their neighbors and friends divided between them.

"Yeah, it is," Stiles agrees, and Peter looks up at him quick enough to hurt his neck. He's too hopeful, too positive. Stiles shakes his head and looks away. "I'm selling the house."

"When?"

"It's going on the market this weekend."

There's this incredible moment where Peter realizes that he thought things wouldn't change like this. That he could file for divorce, but all that would change is the body he shares a bed with. The overwhelming fear that he hasn't thought this through well enough seeps through him, but he knows he's done the right thing.

"That's—where are you going to go?"

"I'm not sure yet."

Peter looks at Stiles admonishingly. "You need a plan," he says before he realizes that it's not his place to say that anymore. He bites his tongue and then stops, because if he's the only person Stiles has told about this, then maybe he can make a place for himself to say these things. "Does Scott know?"

"Doesn't matter," Stiles says.

"That's not fair," Peter says. "You have to tell him."

"Yeah, I'll send him a text on my way out."

"You'd leave him without even saying goodbye? A _real_ goodbye?" Peter is desperate. Scott might be the only person left in the whole damn town who can stop Stiles from going. Scott could be his last chance at salvaging what he broke in this child. Stiles stares him down hard, but not angry. Peter tries to relax his own features, trying to look like he cares but not in that passionate, spiteful way that Stiles used to love. He tries to take a deep breath and stand, but when he does, Stiles inches away from him.

"What would your father think?" Peter asks after the silence goes on too long. It's the thing he says when he's knows he's lost it, lost everything he had here, and Stiles only lunges forward to punch him square in the jaw. That unaffected facade slipping. Peter reels for only a moment before righting himself again.

" _You don't get to ask me that_ ," Stiles shouts, sobs, cries into the shoulder Peter pulls him into. Clinging to his shirt while Peter rocks him side to side. " _You don't…you can't_ ," he tries to say, but his voice won't work right now. All he can do is break in Peter's arms, both of them knowing that he wishes he could be doing this anywhere else, with anyone else.

Peter runs his hand hand through Stiles' hair the way he used to and Stiles doesn't say anything about it, just sort of quiets into a few weak, gasping sobs every few moments against Peter's chest. He tries to pull away but Peter won't let him, and if Stiles is honest with himself, he's probably not trying as hard as he should be. He lets Peter look down at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead and each cheek before tentatively leaving a kiss on his lips. They both seem shocked by it. Peter doesn't know where he got the courage, Stiles doesn't know where he got the gall.

But in the end, they're both clawing at each other, mouths hot and wet where they clash, fighting to see who can shove the most or bite the hardest. Peter thinks he lets Stiles win, but he doesn't really think about how maybe Stiles is actually this ferocious, is actually this hurt from everything. Letting it pour into the kiss, their pants coming undone by some sort of strange second nature, neither realizing who did it or when.

Peter lays Stiles back against the bed slowly, a last chance for either of them to duck out to where things are safe and Stiles still hates Peter too much to let him touch him and Peter is too disgusted with the infancy of his ex-husband that he would never take to the bed with him again. That moment passes and they're back on each other like wolves, starved and breathless. Ribs visible when they arch their backs, nostrils flaring and teeth bared.

Stiles tries to turn himself over onto his front but Peter won't let him. "You look at me or we don't do this," he says, a very daring demand to be making in a situation like this. Stiles glares at him, still for only a moment before his hands are back on Peter, hurting him, tearing down his back with bared claws, and Peter has to pin him down just to get close to him. He shoves his face into Stiles' neck and bites him there. Bites so hard he can taste blood just beneath the skin. Stiles shouts and bucks him away. Peter takes this opportunity to grab the condoms and lube where he found them on his search for his wedding ring.

He rolls the condom on quickly, Stiles jerking himself with his eyes closed the whole time, and when he slicks a few fingers and pushes one in, he makes sure it hurts. Stiles' body opens with it, his legs drawing up, chest bowing out, stomach so tight that Peter can count his ribs where he arches his back. His teeth are bared.

Peter is hesitant to get close to him, worried that Stiles will leave a mark. Peter stares at the one he made, right on the column of Stiles' neck. It feels good, he thinks to himself. He pushes the next two fingers in at once, all three dislodging a weak groan from Stiles' throat. Peter waits for him to say _stop, too fast, you're hurting me_ , but Stiles says nothing. Stiles has never really told Peter when he was hurting him.

When he pushes himself into Stiles, he only hesitates long enough to make sure Stiles isn't bleeding before he starts moving. Stiles seems like he still wants to be facing another way, arm thrown over his face so that all Peter can see is the lax spread of his lips, a small point of tongue poking between them. Peter leans forward to kiss it, but Stiles turns his face away. His free hand is wrapped around his cock, and when Peter tries to take over, Stiles shoves him away.

Inevitably, Stiles comes first. It's so hot, inside and out, that Peter could almost follow him right into it. Stiles recollects himself quicker than he used to, something that leaves Peter feeling disconcerted, and when Stiles is ready to move again, he pushes Peter away until he withdraws, cock sliding heavily out of Stiles' abused hole.

Stiles stands, collects his balance, and makes an awkward beeline for the bathroom. The door closes and the lock turns. The shower comes on seconds later. Peter just stares, disbelieving, not moving until he can hear the rings holding the shower curtain sliding into place. Stiles is actually leaving him here like this.

Peter huffs out an infuriated breath. He throws the used condom on the floor, falls back to the bed, and takes himself in a tight fist. He thinks about how he was just fucking Stiles, but it does nothing for him. He thinks about Chris, Chris' smile, Chris' body, Chris holding him down and fucking him open, mature and masculine and dominating. Still nothing. Peter arches up into his hand, trying to think about nothing at all, but his head is heavy with what just happened. What would Chris say? Is this cheating?

Peter lets go of himself and falls flatly back against the bed. He closes his eyes and drifts off, letting the frustration wash through him, and he doesn't notice that the shower is off or that the bathroom door is open until Stiles kicks the side of the mattress, jarring him. "Get dressed," he says, not looking at Peter. He's already got his jeans on, and he's got a t-shirt in his hand. Back turned on Peter, something he hasn't done in awhile. Peter considers a surprise attack, but nothing comes of it. He also considers just leaving that condom lying there. He doesn't.

When Chris comes, there's nothing that stands out and announces _I fucked my ex-husband half an hour ago_. Peter waits for Chris to see something, to catch him hiding it. He doesn't. Stiles is holed up in his office towards the back of the house. Chris doesn't even see him the entire time he's there. Peter thinks that he might get out of here clean; he sort of loses his breath when he actually does.

It's on the drive Chris' house ( _home_ , he forces himself to reevaluate) that he starts remembering more things he forgot to pack while he was there. He mumbles something about it to Chris, who nods indulgently.

"We can go back?"

Peter thinks about it, then shakes his head. "Better let some time between visits," he says, or something to that effect. He isn't really paying attention.

"I'll have time this weekend."

_It's going on the market this weekend._

Peter just stares ahead.


End file.
